Crash Course by Derek Fee (pdf to ebook reader .txt) 📕

over the open-topped vehicle. It felt good. “I’m damned if I know.” His mother’s death and its effect on him wasn’t part of the plan. What the hell plan was he talking about? He had to be thinking about Davenport’s plan. He had no plan for himself. “I’m the kind of guy that’s always had problems. You saw the tip of the iceberg in Sorrento. Things can get pretty hairy around me.” Davenport hadn’t planned for this eventuality. It was up to him to explain his morose mood.

They were passing through the mayhem which is the centre of Antibes at noon. They passed Fort Carré and the old harbour where the yachts of multi-millionaires bobbed beside the fishing boats of the less-well-healed locals.

“When I left the army, I developed post-traumatic stress syndrome,” Kane said interrupting her. “It doesn’t go away. The men in the white coats say that if I work hard, I might reduce the flashes to irregular intervals. Thus far, they’ve had their heads up their arses. The flashes are still pretty regular and it’s been over five years.”

“Did you ever think that you concentrate too much on your problem? Maybe if you gave yourself a chance, and a little more credit, it would go away.”

Kane pondered the question for a half minute. “I’ll be okay by tomorrow. I’d prefer it if you kept this to yourself. There are thousands, maybe even hundreds of thousands, of men all over the world who have been brutalised and changed by their experiences of war. Personally, I wasn’t prepared for what I saw or for what I was forced to do. I was a professional soldier and professional soldiers kill people for a living. I was the kind of professional soldier who joined up to learn how to ski and jump out of planes. Nobody ever told me I’d have to watch my friends die before my eyes from terrible wounds, or that I’d have to kill a couple of young Afghans. Cut me some slack here and try to understand who you’re dealing with.”

“No promises,” she said, “let’s see how things progress.”

They ate lunch at Monsieur Jeannot’s little cabin bar-restaurant on Cap Fleuri on the outskirts of Monaco while watching six old men play a game of boules. With the remnants of their lunch on the table and the old men now retired to the shade of the bar, they sat silently, staring out into the placid waters of the Riviera.

Chapter Thirty-Three

The sun was not fully up as Kane and Morweena watched the crane deposit their boat into the grimy waters of Port Palm Beach on the outskirts of Cannes. The port was the smallest of the three located in the area and, unlike Sorrento, the second race of the European Offshore Championship would not be permitted to interfere with the daily lives of the rich and famous who inhabited the Riviera town. More than a dozen crews were busy carrying out engine checks before the start of the day’s practice run.

“Holiday’s well and truly over.” David Penhalion came up behind Kane and Morweena and ushered the two members of his team towards the marina where their boat was being berthed. The fibreglass hull looked like new which was difficult to believe considering the buffeting it had taken during the race a few days earlier.

“Have you checked out the course?” David asked.

“Yes,” Kane said.

Morweena looked away.

“Is there something I should know?” David said.

“What Mark means is that we examined the course from a series of beachside bars located strategically along the coast,” Morweena said. “But don’t worry. We’ll get down to the serious examination today.”

Doug Jackson joined them to watch the crane lift his Brit1 off the back of a trailer and sling it into the air above the concrete wharf.

“Good morning, people.” Jackson kissed Morweena and slapped Kane and David on the shoulders. “The way my luck is running I wouldn’t be surprised if the damn boat slipped out of the cradle and smashed on the concrete.”

“It’s early days yet, Doug,” Morweena said, linking her arm with Jackson’s. “One race doesn’t make a summer.”

“I know that but once you start having trouble with the boat there isn’t much time between races to put things right. The designer wanted to add a few gadgets to last year’s boat but he forgot that the main point in this game is to have everything running smoothly before the season starts. We’ve had the mechanics working overtime on getting the engines right but I’m afraid the Brit1 won’t be in the frame at the end of the season.” Jackson watched anxiously as the crane jerkily swung the beautiful fibreglass hull painted with Union Jacks over the wharf and into the water.

Jackson heaved a sigh of relief. “At least we got the bugger safely into the water. Our bad luck might give you guys a chance to make it to Key West.”

“We intend to be there on our own merit, Doug,” David said. “Not because of someone else’s problems.”

“No offence intended, David.” Doug lifted Morweena’s hand and kissed it. “I’d better get over there and show my mechanics that I’m truly appreciative of all the hours they’ve been putting in. See you on the water tomorrow.”

Jackson moved off towards the mooring where his chief mechanic was berthing the Brit1.

“You can stop drooling now.” Kane smiled at Morweena.

“Jealous?”

“Any man would be.”

Morweena took an iPad from her pocket, brought up a page, and showed it to her father “I’ve already worked out the course based on last year’s race. As soon as the boat’s ready, we’ll make a run around the course once or twice to let Mark get a feel of it.”

David looked at the course which Morweena had laid out on the chart. The race ran the seven odd kilometres up the Corniches de la Riviera from a point south of the island of Saint-Honorat.

“That looks all right to me although it doesn’t give you an awful lot of room to play with